


Before the Second Show

by queenfanfiction



Series: fakenews_fanfic secret santas [2]
Category: Pundit RPF (US)
Genre: FNFF SeSa, Gen, everyone loves Rachel Maddow (especially Keith Olbermann), heterosexual bromance, not sure what that says about me, or her, probably better things for her than for me, prompt!fic, sarken knew I wrote this the moment it was fucking posted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:38:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenfanfiction/pseuds/queenfanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their friendship can survive the years and across rival networks, Keith knows, if only because of the sound of her voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Second Show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/gifts).



> Title from the lyrics of "[Superstar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJmmaIGiGBg&ob=av2n)" by the Carpenters. Beta'ed by the wonderful [lilalanor](http://lilalanor.dreamwidth.org), and thanks to [kshandra](http://kshandra.dreamwidth.org) for pointing out that iPhones and BlackBerries do not the same voicemail protocol use. Written for [sarken](http://sarken.dreamwidth.org) for [FNFF](http://fakenews_fanfic.livejournal.com)'s Secret Santa 2011 (original post [here](http://fakenews-fanfic.livejournal.com/1324537.html)). Thank you for such an awesome prompt! <3

It all starts—and ends, though Keith doesn't know it at the time they first meet—with the sound of her voice.

In reality, it's only 'met' for a given value of meeting, because the first time Keith is introduced to Rachel Maddow is through the radio. He'd already heard of her show by then, had learned of its popularity and had been recommended by several people to listen to it the next chance he got; but even with that knowledge, he'd only come across her by sheer luck. He'd simply been riding shotgun in a taxi on his way home one evening and, having gotten permission to search for any station that didn't have an unhealthy fixation with Justin Bieber (the idiot) or Miley Cyrus (what) or Britney Spears (no, really, _what_ ), had randomly flitted between the channels until Rachel Maddow herself had broken through the white noise, with more clarity than the sun bursting free of the thunderclouds that had obscured her brilliance.

He'd frozen there, one hand still on the tuning dial, afraid to even move an inch lest he lose what he'd just miraculously found. His driver had been talking about something at the time, about taxes or fees or incompetent politicians, and someone else had started up a tattoo of honking a few lanes over to his right, but all of that was lost in the background as Rachel's voice cut through, soared over, and drowned out everything else. Keith honestly doesn't even remember what she had been discussing, but what he does remember is that she was smart, she was honest, she was funny—she was basically everything he wanted to be in a journalist, only better and more natural at the job than he ever could be.

But somehow that isn't even enough to make him jealous of her skills. When he listens to her, half carried away by the sound of her words and half shocked that he hadn't come up with some of her political arguments himself, he is only annoyed that he hadn't taken the time to listen for her earlier.

"Oh, you like her?" says the driver. He's a bit too young for a hippie and too old for a pothead, but he seems to have managed to find some middle ground on a foundation of an insane collection of Mardi Gras beads that are scattered throughout the taxi and a history of chain-smoking evident from the haze of fog that refuses to dissipate from the front half of the cabin. "Yeah, Rachel's pretty awesome. I listen to her reruns sometimes—girl could convince a snake to take off its pants, honest." The driver turns to Keith and winks, a knowing gesture between man-friends. "Now _there's_ a woman who's high up on my bang list."

For Rachel's sake, even though he knows almost nothing about her, Keith finds himself offended. "I don't know," he says, trying not to let his sarcasm show through too strongly, "but I don't think you're really her type."

He doesn't leave the driver a tip, but at the time he doesn't notice because in his head he can still hear the sound of Rachel's voice—Rachel, first name only, because when one listens to her it's rather like listening to a good college friend tell you about all her great ideas, and when you listen you can't help but agree; and besides, he is too busy planning out what he's going to tell higher-up when he tries to convince him that they need to clear their schedule after his for a new show that's going to be simply _amazing._

~

(All right, so maybe the circus freak metaphor had been a bit much, but Phil Griffin is such a clown anyway that Keith still feels the comparison had been an apt one.

And it doesn't even matter what he'd said, in the end, because Rachel is so brilliant when she does the stand-in for his show that his convincing hardly played a role by the time they offer her the job.)

~

The night of her first show, Keith takes Rachel out for dinner. It's a pizza joint, with bad beer and even worse pizza if he's going to be honest; but it's the only eating place within walking distance of 30 Rock that is still serving food at that hour, and Rachel had insisted because, well, it's cheap and she's only just started a decent-paying shop and could she at least have a chance to save up some money for her retirement, thanks ever so.

Keith had offered to pay, but no. Rachel wants to stand him for this time, at least, because as she puts it, "I always pay on my first date."

 _It's not a date,_ Keith wants to say, _unfortunately,_ but that won't possibly help the conversation one way or the other. Instead, he tells her, "You were excellent tonight." ( _As always,_ he is tempted to add, but again, not really helping here.)

To his surprise, she picks at her pizza with a fork (is that a thing one does in Boston, Keith wonders, something like rooting for the Red Sox instead of the Yankees?) and reddens under the bright halogen lights overhead. "You think?" she asks, clearly embarrassed.

"Well, yeah." Keith stops picking at his pizza long enough to give her a look. "Why? Don't you think so?"

"Oh, I don't know." Rachel throws back the last of her beer, and when she sets down her glass she has a foamy mustache that Keith is sorely tempted to wipe away with his own napkin. "I haven't let myself think about it," she admits. "I was too bloody terrified while the cameras were on—I don't even know if I even read what was on the teleprompter, honestly."

 _Bloody terrified._ That’s how Rachel says it. The little British-isms she picked up from her time at Oxford makes her sound both educated and down-to-earth, both mature and youthful, a balance of tone that Keith still has yet to manage. He shakes his head and grins. "You worry too much, Rach," he says, and she laughs at him loud enough to draw the attention of the group of college students two tables over.

"You know, I'd normally punch the person who mangles my name like that," she tells him, then pokes her fork in the direction of his nose. "But you, sir, for getting me properly employed—for you and you only, I'll let it slide. Grudgingly."

"Then I'll be sure to make good use of the privilege," Keith shoots back, and Rachel laughs again, ridiculous beer-stache and all, and Keith feels a warmth growing inside him that has nothing to do with the pizza or the alcohol.

~

(They go to the same place every four weeks after that, to celebrate the successful monthly anniversaries of Rachel's show, and after a year Keith hails a taxi for the two of them and takes her out to a high-end Italian dinner across town to commemorate the even-more-special occasion.

Rachel doesn't protest when Keith picks up the check this time, and in return Keith lets Rachel hang from his arm as they leave the restaurant, both of them laughing and flush with good wine and better food and the success of their joint venture, without a word of comment.)

~

The night after Katy moves out, Keith starts awake at the sound of his doorbell frantically buzzing off its handle. The TV is still blaring with the Yankees-Mets game from the night before, and he is still clutching onto his empty beer bottle in the same way as someone else might have been clinging to a stuffed comfort object; and the fact that the Mets are currently ahead suggests that Keith is dreaming, that Katy is back to beg (or plead, or ask—he's not a completely vindictive bastard about the whole thing, no, really, he isn't) for forgiveness, or some combination of both.

As it turns out, it's none of the above, because Keith opens his front door to find Rachel waiting for him on his doormat, bouncing on her heels with her jacket slung over one shoulder and a crinkled grocery sack tucked under the other arm. Keith blinks at her, and she grins back. "Hiya," she sing-songs. "Got any food? Nachos, maybe? God, I love me some good nachos."

Keith blinks again. "Rachel," he says, very slowly, then checks his watch for confirmation. "It's nearly two in the morning. On a Tuesday."

"Yeah, I know." Rachel pushes past him into his apartment, and Keith lets her before turning around and shuffling after her as she makes a beeline for his kitchen, feeling all the stranger inside his own house. "I'd have been here earlier," she calls over her shoulder as she starts to unload bottles of liquor and spirits from her bag onto the countertop, "but I had to run home and pick up all my stuff, and then Susan wanted to know why I was heading back to New York in the middle of the night. I figured I could take a kip on your couch and go straight to the office from here tomor—"

"About that," Keith interrupts, leaning over Rachel's shoulder to inspect her bottles better. Her breath is already tinged with the burning odor of fresh alcohol and a hint of apple, and the applejack brandy bottle closest to him is mostly gone already. "Not that I don't mind your company, God forbid, but there's got to be a good reason for you being in my apartment at a very ungodly hour this fine weekday morning."

Rachel shrugs, then gets out a knife and cutting board (both of which Keith honestly doesn't remember owning, much less using) from under the kitchen counter and proceeds to start cutting up a whole lime from her bag into cocktail wedges. "Because," she says, not looking up from her work, "I heard."

Keith's breath hitches somewhere between his lungs and his Adam's apple. "What—who—"

"Not that I mind, you not telling me," Rachel goes on, ignoring him, "because it's not really my business to begin with, y'know? But when Lamb Chop brought it up—and don't start ragging on him or anything, because he's only the end of a long gossip chain that I don't even know where it starts—I figure it wouldn't hurt to check up on you. I mean, if even Lamb Chop's worried, then something _really_ must be wrong." Rachel reaches into her bag again, pulls out a pair of thin-stemmed cocktail glasses wrapped in Kleenex, and begins to wipe the lime around the rims. "So I did my research, and the internet told me that guys need booze after they break up with their girlfriends. Booze and junk food, but do you know how hard it is to go grocery shopping at one in the mor—"

"Rach." Keith lays a hand on Rachel's wrist, which stops her both from talking and making the drinks. "You don't have to do this," he says, wishing that his voice would've stopped cracking already since Katy left. "I appreciate it, but really. You don't have to—"

"Of course I do!" Rachel turns enough to give him her best _you really are crazy, aren't you, I thought you were only kidding_ look. "Isn't that what friends are for?"

And Keith has nothing to say to that, because (as usual, as always) Rachel is right.

~

(The night after his suspension, Rachel again shows up on his doorstep in the wee hours of the morning; but this time she is only carrying whiskey, Kentucky bourbon in two unopened bottles, and the two of them drink it straight without bothering to get out the shot glasses.

"It won't be long now," Keith says, and Rachel nods without looking at him, and Keith knows that she is sharp enough to have seen the writing on the wall much earlier than he had, but she was too nice to say anything about it before—but she knows, she always knows, and the fire in Keith's throat isn't coming from the whiskey this time.)

~

Keith wakes up one Saturday morning in late January with a pounding headache, a row of empty beer cans dancing and swimming on the bedside table before his very eyes, and his BlackBerry blinking at him to inform him that he has now missed exactly twenty-seven phone calls (five of them from the same Massachusetts number) and there are five voicemails waiting for him if he would be good enough to get off his drunk ass and check.

He gropes for the phone, nearly dropping it in the process, and dials for voicemail. He nearly drops the phone again when the request for a password blares in his hangover-sensitive ears, but he manages to wince his way through the process as gingerly as possible without having his head explode.

 _You have—five—new messages. First new message—received yesterday—eleven-oh-two pm._ "Keith, it's me. I'm at the Real Time taping, we've got a break before overtime, but I—dude, what's up with the news? It's not for real, is it? I mean, you were joking, weren't—oh, break's up, I've gotta go. Call me back, yeah?"

Keith pulls up the phone dial screen and presses a number.

 _Message erased. Next new message—received yesterday—eleven-twenty-four pm._ "Keith, it's me again. Huh. I guess—that wasn't really a joke, then, was it. It's real, you're—God. Wow. Um. Look, I'm on my way back to the hotel, I'm staying overnight in L.A. and then—can you call me? Whenever, I might—it's going to be a while before I get to sleep, I think. Talk to you soon. I hope."

Same number.

 _Message erased. Next new message—received today—twelve-thirty-five am._ "Keith, hey. I didn't know these hotel liquor thingies would be so tiny. I think I've gone through three—six—maybe four of them? Not sure, honestly, I lost count. Hope they don't cost me a booze—a fortune when I sign—when I check out—tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow. God, I'm drunk. Does this mean I'm drunk-dialing you now? I always said I'd never drunk-dial anyone when I'm actually drunk. Does it only count if you answer? 'Cause you're not answering. I thought you were always going to answer, Keith. Keith, you're listening to this, right? I'm not just rambling into nothing, right? Come on, Keith, I need you to answer—"

Again.

 _Message erased. Next new message—received today—twelve-forty-two am._ "Keeeeeith. Did I hang up before? Or did you hang up on me? Wait, you didn't—I wasn't even talking to you. C'mon, Keith, I know you're there, stop hiding and say someth—"

And again.

 _Message erased. Next new message—received today—two-twenty-five am._ A pause, heavy with expectation, followed by a heaving intake of breath. "Keith, it's—it's me. I just—look, ignore all my other calls, okay? I was drunk. Well, drunker than I am now, anyway, but I just wanted—this changes nothing, Keith. Between us—as friends, colleagues, whatever—even if you up and moved to FOX or something, nothing would ever be any different. You know that, don't you? So if you ever need anything, just—you have my number. Anything, any time. I'll be here. I'm always here. I just—I thought you should know." Silence. "Bye, Keith. Talk to you soon, okay?"

Keith hesitates, then slowly moves his finger two numbers to the right.

_Message saved. There are no more messages._

~

(Keith promises his conscience that he's going to call her back, someday, once the kerfluffle clears and once he's done hashing out the details for the new show and as soon as he settles into Current, preferably with a sparkling new job offer for her ready and waiting when he makes that call.

But then, it wouldn't be the first promise that Keith hasn't been able to make himself keep.)

~

_It's been too many years to count since they last faced each other across a camera feed, and Keith is now whiter than Anderson Cooper (and less distinguished in his aging, he's willing to admit that much) while her hair is as salt-and-pepper as his had been when they first met. But age isn't nearly enough to dim the light of her eyes or the brightness of her smile, and her enthusiasm is infectious enough that Keith has to smile back._

_"And that's it for Countdown," he says into the inter-cam, reading the words as they flow off the holo-prompter even though his mind is miles away, in a Boston net-vision studio that is currently being occupied by someone else. "There are two-hundred-sixty-five days until the 2020 Presidential elections. And now—and I say this with great pleasure, and may I add that it's been far too long in coming—I introduce our newest addition to the staff at Current, and host of her very own show that starts its inaugural airing after commercials, live from Boston, Massachusetts, Doctor Rachel Maddow!"_

_"Thank you, Keith," Rachel says, trying not to laugh. "I'm glad to finally be here, too."_

_And Keith knows, in the depth of his very soul, that she means every word._

**Author's Note:**

> \- The FNFF SeSa prompt: "...they didn't want to put Rachel on, and I was saying to them, 'This is the next great host, I recognize her as one circus freak could recognize another.'" - Keith Olbermann, [Rolling Stone](http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/keith-olbermann-on-why-he-left-msnbc-and-how-he-plans-to-get-even-20110607#ixzz1czVhV1av)  
> \- "In June 2006, Olbermann began dating Katy Tur, now a reporter with WNBC-TV. According to Mediaite, the couple broke up in 2009 after three years of cohabitation." - Wikipedia  
> \- Rachel does call Chris Hayes [Lamb Chop](www.youtube.com/watch?v=cOgdsaQ8FBc). Or Lambchop, but I've always assumed the nickname derives straight from [Shari Lewis](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lamb_Chop_\(puppet\)).  
> \- Rachel was in Los Angeles for the live taping of HBO's Real Time with Bill Maher [the same night](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHckThS8RUc) Keith did his final broadcast of Countdown on MSNBC. The linked video is to Overtime, which is about the only segment ever available online since the whole MegaConspiracy thing went down, but I think Bill asked Rachel for her reaction re: Keith in the panel beforehand.


End file.
